


The Dinner Experiment

by eisenhardted



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5752336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eisenhardted/pseuds/eisenhardted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Charles Xavier is an utter debauched troll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dinner Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of silliness, that was originally a gift for @groovyxgenes over on Tumblr.

Go to dinner he said, it’ll be fun he said. She’s not entirely sure what had prompted her to believe Erik’s judgement, but she’s certain he has a funny sense of humour if he thinks this is what she was agreeing to. She thought dinner had been precisely that; a little chance to partake in some fine dining and perhaps make a new friend, but that was clearly because she hadn’t known Charles Xavier long enough to know better yet. 

In his vocabulary dinner meant something else entirely, as the brunette was apparently finding out as she did her best to listen to the telepath’s fellow geneticists talking about research in a way that she was struggling to follow as it was. It’s not that the science was particularly difficult to try and grasp, but rather the man in question’s own attempts at mischief that were making it increasingly difficult to concentrate. 

She’d managed to hold it together through the hand ghosting up her thigh, managed even to find a discreet way to rock into his touch without turning into a quivering wreck, but that was before he’d started putting his mutation to good use and sneaking certain visuals into her mind that had no place at a dinner table. “That’s all very interesting, but how does it work?” She finds a way to make small talk and keep their guests talking, her eyes doing their best not to remain vacant as she settles into the daydream of Charles’ making. 

It’s hard to concentrate when he’s making her imagine all manner of debauchery, when instead of sipping merlot demurely at the table, she’s flat on her back with his mouth between her legs. Or worse still, when she’s the one making sweeping gestures across the table, cleaning be damned, to force crockery and cutlery to the floor in a crescendo of broken glass and clatters. Oh how the table rocks when her thighs are clamped around his hips and she’s riding him as hard as she so much as dare. 

It’s all teeth and tongue when she’s ripping his shirt open, when there’s an ice cube between her lips that she’s tracing in sordid little circles down his chest. She doesn’t care that they’re watching, doesn’t care that her dress is ripped and her nails are leaving little half moon indentations in his shoulders when she’s panting, chest heaving and moaning his praises. 

As far as visuals go, it’s an interesting one, but it’s going to earn him a smack all the same. Cheeks flushed she returns to the present with a vacant hum, smiling politely as her legs squeeze together in an attempt to stop wandering fingers from turning such a vivid projection into something more than fiction. This isn’t the time or the place, and quite frankly she’d kill him if she wasn’t so inclined to tear his clothes off and drag him into the backseat of the car. 

“Ah dear me, listen to us talking science. You must be terribly bored darling.” Charles chips in with a knowing grin, when his fingers wiggle between her legs and ghost along the join where silky skin meets delicate lace. “Why don’t you tell us about your baking exploits, hmm?” He’s doing it on purpose, trying to push the limits of her concentration by projecting more images into her mind and stroking along damp fabric with an eternal degree of satisfaction. 

He doesn’t think she can do it. That she’ll be able to talk about cookies and cake when fantasising about a different dessert altogether, but credit where credit’s due, it’s a valiant effort. With one palm flat against the table, her free hand grasps at the wine glass, drinking from it deeply as colourful images of being bent over the restroom sink come into view, or straddling him down on the car bonnet and being so enamoured it even leaves a sweat slicked dent.

“…I…” She’s lost for words, heart hammering and breasts quivering, embarrassed and aroused to the point it’s not even funny. “…seem to have developed quite the taste for cookies you know. It’s an old recipe, something American but with a lot of English influence.” The words are rolling off her tongue as much as she’s trying not to writhe in her seat, when her hips want to roll forwards into the hand that’s torturing her and earn some tiny little flicker of contentment for herself. “They’re positively sinful.” She drawls the word, setting her glass down and clutching at the table for dramatic effect as oh yes he tips her right over the edge into something akin to unanticipated ecstasy. “…but sweet merciful god, they’re good. ”


End file.
